


The inn in which there is always room

by TheArchaeologist



Series: Empty Space [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Family, Family Feels, Family Relationships - Freeform, Father-Son Relationship, Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hank Anderson and Connor Live Together, Hurt/Comfort, Parent Hank Anderson, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-25 00:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17111099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: It's the most wonderful time of the year. The tree is up and decorated, the office has thrown the annual party, and Hank Anderson has spent the past three hours sitting in his cold car listening to terrible music on the radio.





	The inn in which there is always room

The radio of the car beats out the tinny fuck awful tunes of the season, fake bells accompanying the warble-only singer as they drone on about snow and sleighs and all the other shit that completes the cheery red package. 

It’s almost enough to make Hank slam his head into the steering wheel in the desperate hopes that banishing his brains out will somehow cure the insistent noise.

Why Connor insists he listen to this crap to, “Get into the festive mood, Lieutenant!” is beyond him. He is aware of the fucking season, he’s lived through enough to know the whirlwind of trees and lights and _songs from the pits of Hell_ , thank you very much. He doesn’t need any pushing, or prodding, or getting dragged into the inescapable commercial celebrations at the office, not matter how much Fowler threatens him.

“Are you not getting a tree, Lieutenant?” Connor had asked one evening when returning from Sumo’s walk, finding Hank slouched over the table with a half-empty bottle and the TV playing to an empty living room.

He’d snorted, “Fuck no. Sumo will only piss on it.”

“You’re not celebrating the holiday?” A circle of yellow on his LED, why he kept it in Hank had no idea. “I thought it was custom to-”

“No, Connor, I’m not.”

“Maybe you should consider it this year?” The android had persisted, hanging up Sumo’s leash and removing his coat. He didn’t see the way Hank scowled at him, didn’t feel the holes he was boring into his back. “It might be nice to-”

“For fucks sake, Connor!” He had slammed the table, toppling over his bottle. Black Lamb spilled over the rim. “I’m not getting a goddamn tree!”

“Of course. I apologise.”

And if any of their colleagues muster up the courage to ask him why he went and brought a stupid tree during the compulsory party that Connor drags him to, the type that serves cold finger food in the break room and even colder mulled wine, it’s because he _decided_ to. He happens to _like_ the smell of pine, and trees always last far longer than the overpriced air fresheners that do nothing but stink a room for a few hours and make Sumo sneeze. 

All he has to do is water it and hey presto, a pine smelling home. Hank doesn’t even have to vacuum the damn needles, seeing as Connor is so insistent that he does the chores around the house in payment for living rent free in the spare room, so really, how does Hank lose out on this?

He didn’t ask Connor to decorate it or stick lumpy-shaped boxes and nick-knacks underneath, and it was only out of obligation that Hank had wrapped anything of his own to add to the pile. 

Hot air struggles through the aging heaters of the car, and Hank readjusts to sit in the wavering trickle, arms crosses tightly over his chest.

He probably shouldn’t leave the engine running like this. He’s wasting gas and sitting alone in the carpark for hours just makes him look suspicious. It hadn’t long turned dark when he arrived, but now the sky is pitch black, only broken by the yellow light of the streetlamps and the stupid radio drivel.

Not to mention the exactly-every-thirty-minutes phone call from Connor, who by now would have found Hank’s scrawled _‘Gone out, don’t wait up’_ note on the kitchen table and has probably checked in with all the local bars already.

If he stays here much longer the passers-by will be calling the cops, reporting him for waiting for a stash or whatever.

Isn’t tonight Reed’s shift? Like shit he’s going to deal with that.

With _that_ load of bullshit to motivate him, Hank grabs the object from the passenger seat, kills the engine, and climbs out into the cold. 

It’s still as freezing as it was when he first got into his car, and Hank grumbles as he locks his old model with steadily shaking hands. As soon as humanly possible he promptly shoves them deep into his pockets, the tips of his fingers jabbing the old hard crumbs that have gathered in the corners. 

With a huff of white breath Hank heads off through the gates, his eyes to the ground. It doesn’t look like anyone had the brains to grit the damn path before the snow set in. If he slips and breaks his neck, he’ll make sure to haunt the grounds keeper.

Like the dutiful poodle he is, Hank feels his phone vibrate against his pant leg. Apparently, Connor has yet to get the message that he’s _not going to answer,_ for Pete’s sake, and that he should do as Hank said and _not wait up._ Then again, when has he ever fully listened to anything that left Hank’s mouth?

His phone tings with another unanswered voicemail, probably send directly from Connor’s brain, the creep.

Hank’s thumb catches the edge of the object in his pocket, and he absently toys with the spiked end as he nears his destination. He knows this route like fucking clockwork by this point, so it’s only now that he drags tired and bagged eyes up from the snow and ice.

COLE ANDERSON

23RD SEPTEMBER 2029

11TH OCTOBER 2035

Hank never mastered the talking. 

“Hey buddy…” Shifting from foot to foot, he inspects the grave. 

It’s not as lavish as some of the others in the cemetery, nothing like the ones with the fancy videos and changing pictures. Cole was never the sort of kid who got caught up in trends, proven the day when Hank had shown him his vinyl collection and he ended up with a multitude of crayon drawings of album designs pinned up on the fridge the same week his school visited the CyberLife tower.

Those same drawings were torn down and stuffed into a box only a year later, shoved deep into the back of his wardrobe.

With a sniff totally from the cold, Hank’s gaze shifts downwards, landing on the patch before the headstone. Unlike the ones beside it (beside _him_ ) which have a thick layer of white snow smothering the earth, Cole’s has been cleared recently, the snow neatly and precisely tucked around the edges like a little frame, and with a delayed blink Hank focusses in on the Christmas wreath that has been laid in the exact middle.

It’s small and nothing like the types seen on the doors in the well-off neighbourhoods that have more money than sense, but it’s not unsightly by any stretch on the imagination either, quite the opposite. The ring has been decorated with bits of holly and fir, and a red ribbon has been bowed at the top. Pine cones are dotted periodically, and a white folded card sits slightly damp at the bottom.

Hank’s knees crack as he squats down, gently plucking the card between his fingers and squinting in the low lamppost light at the words inside.

_Remembered forever, missed always._

It’s written in perfect Cyberlife font, no mistakes, no smudging, not a single human error.

The breath he huffs is wobbly. “What an idiot.”

Hank can see the moron, sitting over the kitchen table while Hank was out, light flashing as he stared off into thin air the way he always does when he’s thinking too deeply on a matter. He wonders if this was his first attempt, or if Hank was to check the recycling bin, he would find ten other little notes screwed up or crossed out.

“When he’d go do this then, hey?” He returns the card to its proper place. “You two keeping secrets from me?”

Shit, they would’ve done and all. Cole, for all his good graces and songs of praise, wasn’t half a mischievous kid. Dementia would have to kick him in the teeth before he forgot the time he’d gone to the toilet in the night, only to find the thing wrapped tightly in cling film. That had been one of the smarter ones, because Hank couldn’t go waking the kid to tell him off at half one in the morning on a school night, and by the time they were both up his anger had given way to humour.

He could see it now, Hank walking into the kitchen before work and the two of them snapping to attention, sharing secret smiles and jokes behind his back. Or the two of them covering for each other, the sassy streak in Connor finally morphing into a more relaxed humour. 

Hank could imagine them working through homework in the living room, going over all the things Hank wouldn’t have a chance in hell at mastering, or heading off for the school run on the days he was stuck in shit-early meetings.

His eyes water without permission, and roughly he palms the liquid away. The cracked skin of his hands scrapes sharp against his cheeks.

“What am I like, eh? Oh, I brought you something…”

Fishing it out of his pocket, Hank settles the plastic dinosaur by the bow inside the wreath, waving off a piece of lint that comes out with it.

It’s not much, barely the size of his hand, and like hell he knows what kind of dinosaur it is. At best, he can say it’s green and has four legs. 

Cole would have known. Cole would have known in an instant. He had always been good with dinosaurs, though rarely the ones on the TV or in the movies. They had almost received a permanent ban from the theatre when Cole decided to constantly point out all the inaccuracies in some animated film, only just dodging the punishment when Hank had brought him a large Coke and straw to keep his mouth occupied for the last hour.

 _That_ sugar high had been fun all the way home.

“Now, I know you’re going to hate this, but give your old Dad a bit of leeway, ok? Don’t go ghosting me just because it’s a how-would-I-know-saurus.”

The wind picking up is his answer, sending a shiver darting over his skin. He stuffs his hands back into his pocket and gets back to his feet, melted snow and dirt staining his knees. 

“So, that’s a promise, yeah?” His voice sounds wet, even to him. “No spooking me at midnight?” Squeezing his eyes shut, Hank tilts his head back, facing the dark and cloudy sky. “Fuck, kid, I miss you.”

His phone is ringing again, dancing against his leg incessantly, as if Connor was channelling all his frustration into the device. 

Hank sniffs loudly and swallows.

“Looks like I’m going to have to go, son. Anderson two point oh is calling. He probably needs taking outside.”

Cole would giggle at that, in that goddamn cheeky way he used to, scrunching his nose up and showing his teeth. He might have tried to stifle it under his hand if the android was about, ducking his head so he wasn’t heard. His teachers always caught him doing that, it was in all his reports.

Or he might’ve had a completely different reaction. He might have frowned, pouting in the way that told Hank he was deliberating something, and ask if that meant Connor was a proper Anderson, the same way he had asked if Sumo being referred to as ‘Sumo Anderson’ at the vet was. The receptionist had laughed when Cole had said that, and the waiting vet had grinned fondly. Cole always had that effect.

Connor and Cole.

Cole and Connor.

Shit if that doesn’t have a fucking ring to it. Cole and Connor Anderson.

They could have been brothers.

They should have been brothers.

The call ends with another ping for a voicemail. Hank’s cheeks are stinging as he glances at the Christmas wreath again, worrying the inside of his mouth in a way that makes his mess of a beard scrape against his upper lip.

“I’ll leave the argument over who’s big bro and who’s little bro to you two, got it?” He laughs hollowly at nothing and snorts up more snot. “Behave yourself while I’m gone, don’t go giving the neighbours a reason to ground you, ‘cause I’m totally giving them permission.”

Stepping back, Hank’s eyes remained fixed on the headstone. Deep within his chest, the familiar ach squeezes, stuttering his breath in the icy temperatures.

“Night, son.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hank Anderson: Fuck I hate Christmas music
> 
> Also Hank Anderson: By shit I’m going to listen to this despite being the only person in the car because my robot son told me to.
> 
> Edit: Went back and rewrote a few things, but nothing major has changed!


End file.
